


Red Hood and the Werewolves

by cherryblossombomb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossombomb/pseuds/cherryblossombomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne was stuck in a rut of self-hatred and fear, was immersed in loneliness and despair and had no one to turn to, or thought as much anyway, but despite everything he’d lost he still saved Gotham on a regular basis. A lot of people in his position would be the man he pretended to be: superficial and shallow, just a cliché rich boy with a bratty exterior. But no, he’d risen from that, became a symbol for his city and protected anyone he could, even though it wasn’t his burden to bear.</p>
<p>And Stiles… was nothing like that. He hadn’t lost anyone, not like the Hale family, not even like Scott lost his dad. He got lonely a lot, but that was only his own selfishness; his dad had a job saving people too, he couldn’t help when he worked. Stiles had never saved anyone and probably never would. He couldn’t fight, he was about as athletic as his dad was present, and only had one friend. His talents lied solely in the field of online gaming, and he wasn’t even very good at that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hood and the Werewolves

Beacon Hills was the opposite of a beacon of hope.

It wasn’t the biggest place to begin with, but the streets hadn’t always been utterly devoid of life save for the stray homeless person. It had never really been a popular place and was always kind of hidden on the map by bigger, brighter places, yet despite having always been outshined by its bordering towns and cities, it wasn’t always so… ominous. Haunted.

Stiles vaguely remembered how it used to be, how there’d actually be lights strewn across the town around Christmas, how streetlamps illuminated roads for miles, how the only things lurking in the woods were rabbits and – well, and pretty disgusting spiders, admittedly. But even when he was a little kid, he remembered people moving in and abruptly departing only weeks after, recalled transfer students showing up for a little while and then leaving again.

Initially, he and Scott had thought Beacon Hills was haunted, that poltergeists resided in abandoned houses up for sale, that all the people who came here were tortured by tormented spirits. As scared as they were by the prospect of evil ghosts, they’d taken it upon themselves to investigate: Scott wanted to protect his mom because his dad wasn’t man enough to look after them, and Stiles – well, he wanted to ensure both his parents’ safety, since his mom always looked worried when his dad went off to work with a gun, and… he also kind of wanted to be a superhero, okay? He wanted to save people, definitely, but there was some superficiality in his aspirations too. He wanted to be noticed – for doing _good_ things. For helping people.

It was hard to get noticed in this town. The only notorious people around were ones who were arrested for committing heinous crimes, but soon there were so many people being killed and going missing that every suspect just sort of blurred together and hardly any names were memorable amidst the lists of murderers and thieves in Beacon Hills.

It was when Stiles was six that he began to realise it wasn’t all about the supernatural.

“I’ve gotta get down to the hospital, Lily,” said his dad. He was talking in hushed tones and probably hadn’t intended for Stiles to hear, but Stiles had been a relatively covert eavesdropper for a few years now. It was the only way he found out what his dad did, since he was so rarely at home. “There’s been a fire.”

His mom covered her mouth, looking horrified. “Oh, God,” she breathed. “An—an accident, or—?”

“We… don’t know,” his dad said, which meant that no, it wasn’t an accident, someone tried to kill people tonight, just like last night and the night before. “Apparently two kids and their uncle survived, but… their uncle’s in a coma.” He sounded subdued, but more stoic than upset. He was used to death, anticipated it every time he woke up, and Stiles often wondered if his dad thought about his own mortality.

“Jesus,” Mom said, running a hand through her hair and shrugging Dad’s hands off of her arms. “And the kids? Do they—?”

“The girl’s eighteen, not sure about her brother. I’ve gotta go question them.”

“Already? You don’t think they might be a bit _traumatised_ , John?”

Both his mom and dad had always said Stiles took after his mom more, both in appearance and personality. The upturned nose that looked pixie-like on his mom, but made Stiles feel like a piglet; the freckles and moles dotted across their skin that Stiles always compared to sprinkles on a cake; the sarcasm and wit that John lamented Stiles having inherited, knowing he’d be hard to handle as a teenager; and the bright brown eyes that shone like warm honey in the light. Stiles had always been closer to his mom, too, since his dad was always so busy. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t help but resent him a _little_ bit after all the times he’d been late to dinner and Mom’s shoulders sagged as she put his dinner in the microwave, after Stiles’s candles on his birthday cake went out before Dad got home.

“I’m just doing my job, Lily. I’ve got to find out what I can if I want to help these kids.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I know. You – you’re a great officer, you know. Just – go easy on them, okay? And take care of yourself too.”

“I always am,” he said, and then wrapped an arm around her waist and held onto her tightly, like she was his lifeline. He inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes and allowing himself a moment of comfort, of solace, before peeling away like it hurt. “I’ll see you later.”

She smiled. “Later,” she said, because they never said goodbye.

Stiles scuttled away from the door and crept halfway up the stairs before descending them, pretending he was just coming down. His dad turned to him and raised his eyebrows, looking slightly amused despite the evident morose in his eyes.

“Nice try, kiddo,” he said, ruffling Stiles’s shaggy hair that his mom always tugged at and tried to convince him to chop off. Stiles batted his hands away, grimacing. “But not good enough.”

Stiles huffed, folding his arms. “Someday,” he warned. Even though his dad chuckled at the threat, Stiles couldn’t help but smile, earnestly pleased that he’d made his dad laugh.

“See you later, Stiles,” he said with a backwards wave, and disappeared behind the door.

Stiles zipped into the living room and stared out of the window as his dad peeled out of the driveway and down the road, vanishing into the foggy night air. He always watched his dad leave for work, because he never knew if it would be the last time he’d see him.

“Mom,” he said quietly. She hummed, sitting beside him and glancing out the window like Dad was still there. “D’you think those kids will be all right?”

She looked at him now, brows drawn together, a rueful smile gracing her features. “They’ll survive, I’m sure,” she said carefully, tucking a short strand behind her ear like she always did when she was unsure or nervous. “But nobody should _have_ to survive without their loved ones. And nobody should feel like they have to _survive_ when really, they need to live.”

Stiles frowned at her for a long moment, trying to comprehend her words. It was when he realised she was thinking of losing Dad that he understood.

“I’ll always be here for you, Mom,” he promised, gazing up at her with earnest eyes.

Her melancholy smile transformed into a bright grin as she tugged him into her lap. “Same here, kiddo,” she vowed, and they linked their fingers to make a pinkie promise.

His dad arrived home in the early morning. Stiles heard the front door creak open softly and click shut, heard the kitchen chair screech across the floor and the coffee spot squeal. He knew that his dad would sit there nursing his coffee until Stiles or his mom went downstairs, and only then would he pretend to stop wallowing in misery and self-loathing and drink it.

He knew then that those kids weren’t gonna really _live_ for a long time.

**x.**

“If you could be any superhero, who would you be?”

Pokémon cards lay discarded at the foot of Scott’s bed as he and Stiles gazed up at the poster on his wall, with all the DC heroes lined up together, all muscle and mystery and renowned for saving people. Scott’s and Stiles’s moms were sitting downstairs, conversing quietly, and Stiles knew it was about the Hale house fire. He knew. His dad had gone to work earlier, looking exhausted and solemn like he had during Granddad’s funeral, and the funerals of so many murder victims whose cases he’d looked into. Mom had looked kind of angry when Dad left for work, but mostly really sad, so Stiles said he wanted to see Scott so he wouldn’t have to see his mom lament on her own because she wouldn’t burden Stiles with her woes, but she could talk to Scott’s mom.

“Wally West is pretty cool,” Scott said, knitting his fingers together, staring intently at the poster. “Even though his parents weren’t great, he was really smart and optimistic and ended up saving people.” Scott signed, eyes dropping to his quilt as he picked at a loose thread. “I wish I was smart enough to make myself stronger or faster or something…”

Stiles nudged him. “Don’t worry, Scott,” he said, grinning lopsidedly. “You help your mom every day, you don’t need superpowers to do that. Even if it would be pretty awesome.”

Scott laughed. “Yeah,” he said, looking at the poster a moment longer before shaking off whatever stupor he was in and turning to Stiles. “You?”

“Batman,” Stiles said immediately.

Scott groaned. “You’ve been obsessed with him forever. And everybody wants to be Batman!”

Okay, Stiles _knew_ that. It kind of upset him that so many people liked Batman and he wasn’t special for it, but – just. Bruce Wayne was stuck in a rut of self-hatred and fear, was immersed in loneliness and despair and had no one to turn to, or thought as much anyway, but despite everything he’d lost he still saved Gotham on a regular basis. A lot of people in his position would be the man he pretended to be: superficial and shallow, just a cliché rich boy with a bratty exterior. But no, he’d risen from that, became a symbol for his city and protected anyone he could, even though it wasn’t his burden to bear.

And Stiles… was nothing like that. He hadn’t lost anyone, not like the Hale family, not even like Scott lost his dad. He got lonely a lot, but that was only his own selfishness; his dad had a job saving people too, he couldn’t help when he worked. Stiles had never saved anyone and probably never would. He couldn’t fight, he was about as athletic as his dad was present, and only had one friend. His talents lied solely in the field of online gaming, and he wasn’t even very good at that.

A knock on the door broke him from his reverie, and he turned to see his mom looking a bit more chipper than she had hours before. “Stiles, we’ve got to head home, sweetheart,” she said, “It’s getting dark.”

He whined and pouted and she stuck her tongue out at him, so he turned to hug Scott before saying goodbye to him and him mom, and they drove home in silence.

If he were Batman, maybe he could at least make his mom feel better.

(Or maybe Dick Grayson, because Bruce Wayne wasn’t exactly an optimist himself.)

**x.**

When he was eight, his mom got a job.

Dad hadn’t been sure about it, trying to warn her calmly that the streets weren’t safe anymore. She got pissed off, shouted that he wouldn’t be saying that if she weren’t a woman, and he rolled his eyes and said yes, I would, because I love you and I don’t want both of us in danger when we have Stiles to look after. She understood then, but didn’t want to back off or give in or admit he was right, so she sighed and promised she’d be careful, but not that she’d be fine, because they knew neither of them could ever promise that.

Stiles had to spend more evenings at Scott’s since his dad worked on mutable schedules and his mom was a receptionist at the hospital. She and Scott’s mom tried to take different shifts all the time so that one of them would always be around to look after the kids.

“I feel useless,” Scott confessed to him, dropping his controller and burying his face in his knees.

Stiles paused the game and was kind of relieved because this particular _StreetFighter_ match wasn’t going so well for him. He placed his controller on the floor and shuffled closer to his best friend, brushing their shoulders together. “Me too,” he said.

“Mom does so much… Like, even when Dad was here, she did everything.” He looked down, eyes bright, and Stiles felt a pang. He felt useless too, especially when Scott was upset, because – Stiles had never been adept at comforting people. His dad always hid it from him when he was upset, and his mom always brushed it off for his benefit, and Scott was often just – inconsolable for long periods of time.

“But… if she didn’t have you, she probably wouldn’t be very happy,” Stiles said. He wasn’t sure what to say; he couldn’t lie and say Scott did a lot to help out, but neither did he, and nor did a lot of kids their age. But it was true that Scott’s mom would probably fall apart without her sweet, selfless son to hug her every night and chase away her worries about patients. “As long as she’s got you, she’ll be fine.”

Scott blinked up at him and then smiled a little, and Stiles’s nervous heartbeat slowed somewhat in relief. “Thanks, Stiles,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve.

They fell asleep tangled up in each other, gangly arms intertwined and legs tied together, huddling beneath blankets like they would shield them from their never-ending fears and worries.

**x.**

Nobody had said it wasn’t a costume party.

Scott turned up dressed as Kid Flash, so Stiles went as Robin to emphasise their camaraderie. His mom said Stiles reminded her more of Spiderman, but asked why he didn’t dress as Batman.

“Isn’t he your favourite?” she asked.

His dad just smiled. “Dick Grayson was really important to Bruce Wayne. I think he was one of the main people who made him feel more human than unstoppable vigilante.”

It was times like that when Stiles felt a foreign rush of affection for his dad. He sort of understood these weird meanings behind things that Stiles never intended for anyone to notice. He hugged his dad tightly, not above that and never would be even if Scott already got embarrassed being seen with his mom in public. He was always so scared of losing either of his parents that he didn’t care if he was uncool for being so affectionate towards them; popularity and reputation meant nothing.

(Batman let people think he was a villain, so Stiles didn’t see it as much of a sacrifice to be seen as less awesome than he knew he was.)

When he and Scott had turned up at the party, he wondered if everyone there were really his age. Most of the kids were dressed normally, and quite a few were even dressed as if they were attending a wedding or something, clad in weird fluttery dresses or waistcoats.

Some even had _phones_. _What_.

“Wow,” one kid said when he spotted them. His eyebrows shot up and he grinned crookedly. “The dynamic dorks, right?”

Stiles was more offended by how people _laughed_ at such a lame joke than he was about the insult itself. But Scott seemed embarrassed and yanked off his mask, stuffed it into his back pocket, and slunk off to a corner.

Stiles blinked at him rapidly, affronted that he’d just give it up after one jerk cracked a really pathetic joke. He looked back at the blond kid, who seemed more sombre when nobody was looking at him. Stiles hesitated then. He knew what that was, feigning happiness and faking smiles when eyes were on you, and then dropping the act when you thought nobody was looking. His parents did it all the time.

He let his own comeback die on his tongue and turned abruptly to go and find Scott. People giggled at them whenever they glanced at them for the first time, but they ended up playing Twister and falling and laughing until it hurt, and ate more junk food than they were normally allowed, so it ended up being better than Scott had feared.

He even tugged his mask back on eventually, and sent Stiles a little grin that made him feel a little more like a hero.

**x.**

It was the day before his ninth birthday that his dad was first shot.

His mom pretended not to panic when she was called, but her hands shook as she dropped the phone and she almost missed the gearstick and she accidentally swore in front of Stiles twice.

Stiles… hadn’t reacted normally.

He should have panicked too, should have felt like sobbing, because he was still only eight and could lose his dad like he’d always feared. But he wasn’t shaking like his mom, wasn’t close to tears. He felt his heart try to beat itself out of his ribcage, but his body was tingling like he was covered in pins and needles. His ears were ringing a little and he was barely drinking in the sights of stoplights and the sound of horns as they sped to the hospital. He could always pay attention to so many things that once, even if he couldn’t concentrate on them for long, so this feeling… was wrong.

He felt numb as they clambered out of the jeep, as they ran through the parking lot into the hospital, as his mom tapped her foot and sighed and bit her lips in the elevator. He felt empty when they waited for a doctor, felt nothing when his mom shook back and forth and stared wide-eyed at her coffee.

It was only when they were at his dad’s bedside did feeling rush back to him, so abruptly that he couldn’t breathe for a second, felt like he hadn’t been breathing that whole time, and he gasped like he’d just surfaced from underwater.

Dad looked at him and put his hand at the back of his neck and dragged him closer, until Stiles’s face was pressed into Dad’s shoulder, and he clung to his hospital gown because he could _feel_ again, because this was all _real_.

But he didn’t cry.

He didn’t cry the next day when his mom forgot his birthday until the late evening, when she rushed to his room and hugged him and sobbed and apologised like it was her fault Dad was hurt. He didn’t cry about not having received presents that year, or about the lack of a cake, and didn’t even get angry that his dad had missed his birthday for the third time in a row.

He didn’t cry the next time he fell over and grazed his knee, even though it was deep and full of grime and he had to put weird-smelling chemicals on it to clean it. He didn’t cry when he wore his Robin costume to another party and an older kid with alcohol on his breath slammed him into a wall and hit him, giving him a black eye and tearing his suit. He didn’t cry when it became a regular thing for a boy at school to shove his head down a toilet and kick him until his sides bruised.

**x.**

He was a bit resentful.

Both his parents were off at work most of the time these days. This time, both Scott’s mom and his mom were working the same shift, so they were told not to leave the house. There weren’t any babysitters available at present; most teenagers weren’t allowed to leave their houses with so many bodies turning up and untrustworthy people roaming the streets.

It was half an hour after their moms left that they snuck out.

“I don’t know if we should be doing this,” said Scott nervously, face twisted into a worried grimace. “Mom always knows when I’ve done something bad.”

“First, we’re not doing anything _bad_.” He made a face, shrugging his shoulders and throwing his arms up. “We’re getting some fresh air.” One side of his mouth twitched into a mischievous smirk. “Second, your mom always knows because you’re just a bad liar. You have no poker face, Scott.”

Scott scowled at him like it wasn’t true, and Stiles laughed.

Beacon Hills wasn’t really like Gotham. It wasn’t particularly industrial and there wasn’t an infamous tower that belonged to a prestigious orphan, and the streets weren’t littered with drug smugglers and people who could pass for mafia bosses, and no evil penguins rose from the gutters. But still… wandering the streets at night, with the wind whispering chilling things and sounding like screams being carried through the air to those with overactive imaginations, it felt a lot like Gotham. It was dark and bleak and the silhouettes of trees against a dusky sky, the full moon hidden behind clouds—

It sometimes made him narrate everything in his head.

Scott looked at him like he was crazy when he giggled, but just shook his head and accepted it because Stiles had been insane from the moment they’d met when Stiles slowed down to walk with the asthmatic boy and then offered to share his dinosaur-shaped sandwiches and create their own superhero aliases.

Scott gasped suddenly, lurching back when there was a sound echoing from the woods. Stiles rolled his eyes to hide how his own heartbeat escalated and his shoulders twitched. “Scott, come on, it was probably just some animal. Probably relatively harmless.”

“Probably? Relatively?”

Stiles was about to ask if Scott had only repeated him because he didn’t understand the words, and Scott would glare and then forget about being scared, but there was another howl in the distance that made them both still.

“Stiles, let’s head back. C’mon.”

Stiles’s masochism-fuelled curiosity prompted him to walk forwards, to sink into the darkness of the woods and search for whatever was making that noise. But when he glanced back at Scott to see anxiety shining in his eyes, he sighed and relented, knowing it was probably for the best, probably safer to go back.

“ _Fine_ ,” he groused, sulking for a full five minutes before his thoughts drifted from the source of the howling to their next game of Mario Kart to if his dad would make it home tonight.

**x.**

His chest ached and he felt bile rise in his throat as he ran, legs pumping as hard as they could as he dashed madly for a place to hide. He wasn’t supposed to see that, and the man knew he’d seen it, was following him, was going to kill him too—

Bad things weren’t supposed to happen in broad daylight.

That’s what Stiles thought to himself as he crouched behind a dumpster, chest heaving but trying to hold his breath so he wouldn’t be heard. Swallowing thickly, he exhaled a shaky breath as he leaned towards the edge of the dumpster, peeking around it to see if the man was still there.

The alley was empty.

His eyes shot around, beside him, above him, left, right, but nobody was to be found.

He ran all the way to Scott’s house, who looked about as terrified as he felt moments ago, and Stiles managed to make it to the bathroom before he threw up.

“Stiles, what happened? You weren’t supposed to be outside, were you?”

“Oh my _god_ , Scott!” Stiles snapped, jerking awkwardly because he wasn’t sure where to move or how to act after what he’d seen. “All of these laws are so _stupid_. Innocent people are scared to leave their houses, people who’ve done nothing wrong have curfews because a bunch of evil jerks do horrible things, but – but nobody’s trying to stop them!”

Scott was frowning, looking as anxious as he always does nowadays. Always worried about his mom. “The police are… Your dad—”

Stiles closed his eyes. “The police can’t get all of them. These people aren’t scared of the law. If they were, they wouldn’t keep – _hurting_ people.” He shook his head and picked at the grime in his fingernails. He had to wash them; they were scraped from when he skidded into the alley, and filth coated the cuts and made his blood look black. “Nobody just steps up to try and stop them. Not even I did, just – just now—”

He felt sick again.

Scott didn’t ask him about it anymore.

**x.**

He alternated between limping and jogging home, hoping with each aching, gasping breath he took that neither of his parents were there.

He grimaced when he saw the kitchen light on and debated trying to scale the tree in front of his room like he had when he was five and sprained his ankle. Shaking his head, he slid the key out from under the flowerpot on the doorstep, and tried to open the door as quietly as possible. He winced when it creaked, but nobody shouted his name, so he breathed a sigh of relief and let it click shut. He leaned against it, nerves prickling as he listened until the silence became a dull roaring in his ears, and then began to creep towards the stairs.

“Stiles.”

“Oh my _god_!”

His mom was glaring, but he noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes and the grim line of her lips and the grease in her short hair. She’d been so tired with all her shifts at work as of late, he barely saw her more than he saw his dad. He wondered if they ever saw each _other_.

“Would you care to tell me why my _nine year old son_ was out in the dark after curfew? _Alone_?”

“Um,” he said, suddenly feeling timid. “Not really?”

It obviously wasn’t the right thing to say because she had to purse her lips to stop herself from shouting. But— “Damn it, Stiles!” she screamed, and then pressed a hand to her forehead, grimacing. “I have enough to worry about with your dad not coming home for hours on end, I don’t need to sit here thinking you could be dead out there too.”

Stiles felt as if someone had dropped the whole sea on him; waves of guilt lapped at him and drew him in deeper until he felt _furious_ at himself for making his mom feel that way, for making her feel like he felt every waking moment. He felt like he couldn’t breathe in the gallons of shame pouring over him like torrential rain, and he felt smaller in that moment than he’d ever felt before.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered, eyes stinging, but he blinked the tears back before they had a chance to escape.

She just breathed for a while, trying not to lose her temper, before shaking her head. “Just – go to your room, Stiles. Please.”

He heard her crying in the kitchen hours later.

**x.**

“Happy birthday, honey,” Mom said, enveloping him in a tight embrace that lingered a moment longer than necessary, before pulling back and grinning softly.

“Thanks, mom,” Stiles replied, beaming back a mirror grin. “Double digits!”

She ruffled his hair before wincing. “God. Please cut this. You look like a sheep. An adorable one, but a sheep nonetheless.” She smiled.

“Wonder Woman has long hair too,” Stiles grumbled, pouting. Who cares if she was a female superhero? She was awesome. Stiles wouldn’t mind being her.

Mom rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. C’mon, let’s get you breakfast. Scott should be here soon, and then we’ll have cake.”

“The one we made?” he asked excitedly, hopeful.

Her eyes softened for whatever reason, and she squeezed his shoulder. “The one we made,” she confirmed.

After Scott came over and they all sang happy birthday and Stiles buried his face but grinned through it, after the cake and video games and board games with their moms, after Scott gave him a Batman action figure, his mom gave him her present.

“Your dad’s present is here,” she said, “but let’s wait for him to get home before you open it.” She smiled and leaned over to grab one wrapped in paper with little bats all over it. “But here’s mine.”

“Thanks, mom,” Stiles said cheerily, happier than he’d been in – well, longer than he could actually remember. He felt kind of guilty for wallowing in misery for so long over things his parents couldn’t control, and seeing his mom smiling so much today made him want to be stronger, happier so that he could make her smile like that more often.

He tore the paper off excitedly and opened the box. At first, his heart sunk a little bit when he noticed it was clothes, but he got it out nonetheless. It was a dark red hoodie that felt sturdier than most sweaters. He frowned and pressed it between his fingers before looking at his mom questioningly.

“It’s got a bullet-proof vest inside of it. The thinnest I could find so it wouldn’t be too overt,” she said. “It’ll keep you warm when you’re wondering the streets without permission, and increase your defence if a crazed lunatic does decide to attack you.”

He wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, not many people ever did understand his mom’s sense of humour, but he laughed anyway. There were other scraps of fabric buried in the box, but he thought little of it, they were probably just scraps his mom forgot about.

“I can’t believe I have a freaking bullet-proof hoodie. I’ve gotta tell Scott.”

“ _Long Halloween_? It isn’t even close to Halloween…” his mom muttered, looking baffled, when Stiles opened Dad’s gift.

“I don’t get it either, but he’s wanted it for ages.” Dad shrugged, also nonplussed, but looking fond.

Stiles squeaked, high-pitched, and hugged his dad. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I’ve got _Long Halloween_. I’ve gotta tell Scott!”

Lily and John just looked at each other.

“Don’t look at me, he gets it from you,” Dad said.

Mom threw wrapping paper at him.

**x.**

He couldn’t – he couldn’t breathe—

Hands were wound tightly around his neck, blunt nails digging into his skin, and in his blurry vision he could see a blade shining in the guy’s hand.

_Oh god, oh god, Mom’s gonna worry when I’m not home, she’ll cry because I got hurt and didn’t do as she said, Dad’s gonna blame himself, I’m such an idiot, oh god, oh god, no, no, no—_

His knees collided with the concrete as he collapsed, gasping and dry heaving as black spots dissipated from his vision. He gasped, sounding like he was choking, dying, and wondered if he was stabbed. No, no, he was—he was fine, and, god, he should’ve worn that hoodie tonight, he’d almost died—he’d—

“Are you hurt?”

His head jerked up to meet seafoam-green eyes, and he stared at the guy in terror before glancing around to see a prone form on the floor, the knife gone and the man taken down.

“He’s unconscious. Not dead. Won’t wake up for a good few hours probably.”

Stiles stared at him, lips parted as he gaped, thousands of thoughts whizzing through his mind at the speed of light.

“Are you hurt?” the guy repeated, glaring, but sounding ever so slightly concerned.

“Oh! No – no, I’m fine, I’m okay, sorry,” Stiles babbled, the words falling out quickly as he scrambled to stand.

The guy’s eyes raked over him, scrutinising him for injuries, before narrowing them. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” he said automatically.

He closed his eyes, looking pissed. “Even if I believed that,” he muttered, “you’d still be under the age of being allowed out after curfew.”

Stiles laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, um, got lost.”

The guy scowled, like he knew he was lying again. “Go home, kid,” he muttered, and Stiles didn’t turn his back on him until he was away from the street, but he felt kind of like he was being followed until he got home.

When he sunk against the door, he wondered if that guy was a superhero.

**x.**

“I wish I was a hero,” Stiles said.

“I know. You’ve wanted to be a superhero since forever,” Scott replied, elbowing him when he twisted his controller like it’d help his fruitless pursuit of outdoing Stiles.

“No, but…” Stiles made a face. “Not even a superhero. Just… even if I couldn’t have superspeed like the Flash, or be super strong like the Hulk, or use magic like Raven, or even fight as good as Batman,” he mumbled, “I just… wish I could do something – to help. Anything. Even – even like Alfred. He always knows what to say to help Bruce and he can always patch him up and stuff. And even though Robin’s a sidekick, every single one was helpful… Tim Drake was really smart, right? Maybe I could be like him?”

Scott glanced at him. “You always know what to say to me,” he said. “And you help me when I have asthma attacks. _And_ you’re really smart.”

Stiles blinked, surprised and kind of touched but also unsure of what Scott was saying. He didn’t seem to be about to continue though, so Stiles just gave a little smile and said, “Thanks,” wondering if that meant he was a sidekick or a butler, but never a hero.

**x.**

He was ten when his mom was killed.

Her body was found in the woods.

Days after she went missing, days after Dad punched the walls and cried into his coffee, days after Stiles locked himself in his cupboard and shook back and forth like she used to, days after she and Dad were meant to celebrate their twelfth anniversary but Dad had been searching for an arsonist until midnight.

The funeral was lonesome and quiet, filled only by Dad, Stiles, Scott, and Scott’s mom, and the crows and falling autumn leaves that surrounded them. Stiles wavered in and out of the priest’s speech, but lingered on every word his dad said about Mom, stared at Scott’s mom as she tearfully spoke of their friendship, but he shook his head when asked if he wanted to say anything too.

Scott held his hand, and that was almost Stiles’s undoing. Scott never showed affection anymore, not since it was obvious Stiles was being bullied and Scott was picked on for his asthma and lankiness as it was, but he gripped Stiles’s hand now like it would anchor him. He felt tears rise up in his eyes and he knew he was shaking all over, swaying on the spot, lips trembling, and he sniffed like it would reign the tears in too.

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair. I want my mom back – I want Mommy—” He choked on the words and a sob caught in his throat. Scott threw his arm around Stiles and pulled him into a tight embrace, and Stiles clung onto his best friend like he used to cling to his mom whenever he had a nightmare.

But this was worse than any nightmares he’d ever had, and this one he couldn’t wake up from. Nobody could comfort him with this one, because it was real life, and his mom would never be there for him ever again.

**x.**

He and his dad never talked about it.

They were closer now than they used to be. Dad attended Stiles’s meetings at school and always smiled proudly when they said Stiles was a very intelligent boy with a whole lot of potential – you know, once you get passed the lack of concentration. He was always home on Stiles’s birthdays – sometimes late, but never completely missing, and one present was always clothes and the other were comics. It became a tradition. They visited Mom’s grave together, but didn’t speak about it, didn’t talk to her, and only talked to each other about dinner or work or school with forced casualness.

Today was his sixteenth birthday.

He’d laughed when his dad gave him his umpteenth check shirt and grinned at _Red Hood and the Outlaws_ , admonished his dad when he showed Stiles the shop-bought cake that was full of things that were way too bad for anyone, but they ate a couple of pieces together anyway. Stiles then disappeared to his room while his dad read the paper for a while until he had to head off again.

He tried to do his report but was failing miserably; all the words blurred together and he read over the same article several times without taking anything in. He finally gave up, rubbing his eyes and pressing his palms into them as he leaned back in his chair. He yelped when he almost leaned back too far, nearly falling off, and caught himself on his desk.

“Smooth, Stiles, smooth,” he told himself with a self-deprecating little grin, before spinning in his chair and stretching.

He faltered when he faced his bed, crooked smile vanishing. He sagged to his knees and stuck his arm under the bed, passing dirty socks and a week-old pot of noodles before snagging a box and placing it on his bed with the utmost care, like it was breakable treasure. Sighing softly, he stroked the box before flipping the top off, and carefully extracted the red hoodie inside of it. He stared at it for a long moment, eyes stinging and throat aching, before sniffing everything back. He yanked it on and glanced at his reflection in his computer screen.

He tilted his head, ignoring the wet shine in his eyes, and licked his lips as his eyes darted up and down his reflection.

He looked kind of like _Spiderman_ , he thought, amused. Mom had always compared him to Peter Parker, teasingly informing Stiles that they were both nerds, both awkward, and both quirkily adorable.

He huffed a little laugh and smiled fondly at the memory, even with the poignancy that was laced with it.

He kind of wanted to redesign his superhero he’d spent hours on as a kid. It looked like a sloppy scribble made of odd rectangles and triangles, but whatever. He’d never found a proper name, not one that stuck, although he’d always kind of wanted to steal Jason Todd’s _Red Hood_.

Shaking his head, he grabbed his bag. He had to hurry to school; he’d be obliterated if he were late, seriously.

He hesitated at the door of his room, pursing his lips, before grabbing his sketchbook and stuffing it in his bag.

Why not redesign his superhero during free period?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this chapter was a lot of introspective narrative, and I'd be lying if I said I'll stop doing that. >n>; But starting next chapter, there will be some more action, interaction, and dialogue.
> 
> Also, Stiles is gonna start making his superhero costume! (o u o)/ And hopefully there shall be more Derek. It might take a while for them to develop feelings for each other, ahahaha.
> 
> Title obviously inspired by a Red Hood comic. Ugh, that name is perfect and I can't use it. Darn it, Jason Todd!


End file.
